The Bearing of Marks
by authenticaussie
Summary: His fingers fluttered over the white bandages currently wrapped around his torso, guarding the purple and white tattoo branded on his back from the cold sting of the salt wind. It still felt as though he were dreaming – as though when he woke up, he'd still be facing down Jinbe, everything after their fight having been part of an exhausted delusion.


**AN:** **marcoace week day 2 - tattoo.**

 **Also doubles as lolles' birthday present that I actually wrote ages ago bUT GOT RLLY ANNOYED AT BECAUSE IT SWITCHED TENSES ALL THE TIME.**

 **If you notices any tense switches, can you tell me? I'll fix them up. vuv**

* * *

When Ace had first started trying to kill Whitebeard, he'd half expected to wind up dead. He'd half expected to come away with scars and a few limbs missing, but maybe triumphant. He'd half expected to be dropped off at the nearest deserted island and left to rot.

He hadn't expected at all that he'd become Whitebeard's son.

His fingers fluttered over the white bandages currently wrapped around his torso, guarding the purple and white tattoo branded on his back from the cold sting of the salt wind. Ace bit down on his tongue, trying to centre himself. It still felt as though he were dreaming – as though when he woke up, he'd still be facing down Jinbe, everything after their fight having been part of an exhausted delusion.

Only the pain from his enflamed skin kept him grounded in reality, as it had over the past few days. He'd known that getting a tattoo would hurt, of course, but geeze was he glad he hadn't chosen to get colour on his first.

The large grin on his back had been a pain to line, and even worse to fill in. No wonder the other members of Whitebeard's crew had theirs smaller.

Well, apart from Marco.

Marco's took up his chest in a straight cross Ace knew would have been painful as hell to get done, especially with Marco's devil fruit ability. Had it tried to heal the scars left by the needle as they were being made? Ace himself had submitted to seastone while getting his done, but somehow he couldn't see Marco doing that. Maybe he'd had to, to get around his fruit's healing ability.

And Marco likely would have subjected himself to any weakness if it meant he could wear Whitebeard's mark with that sort of pride.

Ace wondered what it would be like, to have no doubts about such a belonging. To know that without fail there would be a home to welcome him and a pair of arms to hold him tight.

Sure, he had Luffy, and he knew Luffy would always be ' _home'_ , would always hold more than his fair share of Ace's heart, but when Whitebeard offered him– offered him–

He could barely even capture the thought, the singing knowledge that Whitebeard offered him more than _family,_ more than _love,_ more than _protection,_ more than the awareness that if he called he'd have hundreds of voices to answer his.

Even though Whitebeard had told Ace that he was accepted as Whitebeard's son, Ace still found a tiny creature made of doubt wriggled into the holes in his heart. Every barb about being Roger's son, every spat curse or threat or cruel laugh had made gaps that this uncertainty clung to, hiding beneath his confident demeanour.

Was he even making the right choice, taking on Whitebeard's mark like he belonged here?

The waves passed beneath the ship's bow, gold glitters of the fading sunlight kicked up by the whitewash, and Ace clenched his teeth, trying to force back the sickening realisation that though he'd been so confident before, now he doubted the choice he'd made.

Was he really fit to be Whitebeard's son? Was it really alright for him to wear Whitebeard's mark like Marco did, strong and proud and unhidden?

"You think too much, yoi." Marco hummed from behind him, and Ace felt a jolt go up his spine as Marco's gentle touch was laid against his shoulder blade.

"Better than not thinking at all," he retorted, trying to hide how he'd jumped and turning his face away from Marco's to stare towards the horizon.

Marco could read him like an open book, like every one of his fears was written between his freckles and along the tiny frown lines by the corner of his eyes. Right now, Ace didn't want to be deciphered and picked apart. Right now he didn't want Marco to spout any comforting words, any dredged up lies to try and placate him, not when his stomach rolled at the thought of being pitied or reassured only because he was unable to keep his twisted emotions under tight control.

Marco seemed to oblige his silent wish, leaning his elbows against the banister and tilting his head back to watch the white sails stretched taut with the evening wind. "I was afraid," he said after a moment of silence, when only the muffled voices of their nakama drifted towards them, the tiny sounds of glasses and cutlery. Before Ace could ask _afraid of what?_ Marco had continued. "It's why I didn't get the proper mark done. Because I was—" he paused, and from the corner of his eye Ace saw Marco's tongue trace his teeth, like he could find the words buried in the enamel if he searched for long enough. "Because I _am_ \- afraid of still being here after everyone is gone. After the Whitebeard pirates are all gone, and no-one remembers them anymore."

Almost absentmindedly, Marco's hand traced his cross, following the blue ink in a way that told Ace he used to do it in front of the mirror, now knows where every line begins by instinct.

"You-" he started off saying, but his throat was too tight and the words sounded wrong so he stopped and breathed and listened to the cry of a seabird above them. "They won't die." He said, with a finality that made Marco give a surprised bark of a laugh. "The Whitebeard pirates will be remembered by the whole world, and as long as someone carries the mark there'll always be a crew."

"We." Marco said, and for a brief moment Ace felt confusion, only strengthened by the fact Marco followed it up with, "Our." He frowned for a moment before it suddenly clicked and he realised that Marco was correcting him.

 _We won't die as long as someone carries our mark._

His chest knotted, wrapped itself tight and painful and for the strangest reason Ace found himself grinning, staring into the knots of wood beneath his white knuckled hands even as something burnt and pricked uncomfortably at his eyes.

"Our." He managed to choke out through a throat that barely let him breathe, and knew without looking at his quivering fingers that he was shaking.

"You are more than the results of the battles your father fought in." Marco said seriously, voice dipping and low, "You are not a _mistake,_ and if I deserve to be on Whitebeard's crew then so do you _._ "

"But you-" Ace tried to protest, his head snapping up so he could see Marco, but Marco only clicked his tongue and looked back at him, expression unreadable as he took the half-step and removed the little space that had been between them. His hands rested against Ace's shoulders, thumbs pressed to the circle of muscle, and Ace tried to ground himself again, listening to Marco's smooth tenor.

"I was afraid, and I had every right to be. You do too, but only because you're used to everything not working out for you." A tiny, almost painful smile pulled up Marco's lips, like he was thinking about all the little things Ace had let slip in their conversations together, and Ace wanted to do anything he could to get rid of it. Before he had a chance to say anything though, Marco's low voice continued. "You should know though, now you're our brother I don't think anyone is going to let you escape anytime soon."

"But I-" Ace tried to protest, tried to form some sort of explanation like the one he could hear in his head, the one that sometimes whispered and sometimes shouted but almost always seemed to be there.

 _I am a demon's son, my existence was never meant to happen, so many people want to see my head placed upon an execution block for who my father was and what he'd done and I don't think I'd have protested if it hadn't been for Luffy-_

"Am Whitebeard's newest son. Am going to make Whitebeard the King. Am going to make everyone proud."

Ace could feel his heart stuttering to a stop at Marco's words, and it only started to beat again when Marco finished, staring expectantly at him.

"I don't know if I can be all that." He whispered to the ground, letting his head rest against Marco's chest and scrunching his tired eyes closed so he didn't have to see Marco's foot tapping in the impatience he was likely to feel at this point.

 _Who wanted to take care of someone so easily hurt by such stupid things?_

Instead of hearing a steady tap or a drawn-out sigh, however, all Ace knew was that Marco's arms had moved and were now wrapped around him, secure and tight enough to feel just a bit constricting – like someone wanted to hold him instead of gingerly slinging an arm close to avoid as much of him as possible.

"Start small." Marco replied, like he wasn't asking the impossible, like he was asking for a little step forward instead of something more akin to flight.

"I _can't_ -" he choked out, but Marco's grip tightened, even as he moved his hand to Ace's chin and made Ace look him in the eyes so that Ace could see every word he was saying was true.

"You start by being Ace, in any mood that comes along. You start by doing and saying whatever the hell you want. Everything else will come along with that." Marco grinned, just softly, "Trust me Ace. If you feel like falling down, we'll be here. That's what that mark means. It's not a debate on whether you deserve it, because the fact you have it means you deserve it."

Ace knew there was a shake somewhere in his limbs, an earthquake held captive in his palms, but when his hands were pressed against Marco's chest, over the rise and fall of his breath, and he could catch glimpses of blue between each spread finger, he knew with some sudden certainty that Marco would hold him steady if he tried to shudder apart.

Marco's words were already working on that job, soothing the worry that filled his head like a storm, calming and pulling at the edges until the hollow ache in his chest felt almost full. Maybe Marco was right, on what that mark meant. Even if there was still a tiny wriggle of doubt stuck in one of the unhealed wounds of his heart, Marco wouldn't let it stay.

Even if he knew that a part of him didn't believe in himself, didn't believe in Marco's words, he believed in Marco, and he knew that Marco believed in him.

And that knowledge was enough to make him think that maybe it wouldn't be that difficult to fly, after all.


End file.
